Wednesday, October 04, 2017

Both
achieved their high-profile positions, before gaining the ultimate prize in
each of their countries, because of their fathers.

Kim’s daddy
got the top job because his daddy gave it to him and so he gave it to Kim.
Donald’s dad made sure he received a firm grounding in how to lie and cheat and
grind to dust all opposition on his way to the top.

After many
years observing Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump I have come to a number of
conclusions.

1 – their narcissism
is at brutal levels and there is much evidence to suggest both are psychopaths.

2 – they are
incapable of self-reflection.

3 – they are
incapable of forming ideas, concepts or coherent policies

4 – neither manifests
what is generally referred to as intelligence or empathy.

5 – they
have rat cunning

When you see
them on tv or hear them on radio, it is as though you are listening to an empty
vessel pour out nonsense that someone recently poured in and they must pour out
or they will drown.

You know the
sort, they have no words of their own and only ever utter words of others.

The boy Kim’s
voice sounds like it runs through gravel before arriving outside his mouth. He only
ever reads, quickly, without pause, or emphasis. And his reading is followed by
applause you would expect to see only in a Leni Riefenstahlfilm. He is clearly
stupid but can read.

As for
Trump, listen close, when not reading, he has no control over his sentence
structure and if it hadn’t been for his dad he would be working the front desk
of a complaints department for the immigration department, a telecommunications
company, or your health insurer, somewhere where confusing the customer is a
vital skill.

The big
question is – Who is writing their speeches, or pouring liquid nonsense into
the vacuums?

Their speeches,
obviously, will be written by speech writers, but where do the ideas come from?
Who is getting inside their heads?

Easy.

What else do
they have in common?

Hair.

Both have
hair that does not stand or sit of its own volition. They do not wake up in the
morning with the stuff ready set. Their hair requires work. They must sit for
hours in a chair having the follicles arranged. It’s always in place. Never
out.

Given
neither of them read, they aren’t glued to a book while their heads are re-arranged.

Let’s guess
– three hours each day?

Are you with
me? You sussed the theory?

Hairdressers.

No one gets
closer to another human being than hairdressers and dentists. No-one has more
power over a sitting client.

Except
proctologists, but we can exclude them because if either of the lads required
proctological treatment, you can be sure it would be quick and the examiner thrown
out with the glove and the bath water.

And it’s not
dentists because Jong-un’s teeth are nothing much and Trump’s are what you
would expect from an American reality tv star.

It has to be
hairdressers.

In Korea and
the US, there are two evil dressers handling the follicles.

Let’s remind
ourselves and ask Wikipedia for a definition.

Hair is a protein filament that
grows from follicles found
in the dermis, or skin.
Hair is one of the defining characteristics of mammals. Attitudes
towards different hair, such as hairstyles and hair removal, vary widely
across different cultures and historical periods, but it is often used to
indicate a person's personal beliefs or social position, such as their age,
sex, or religion.

Let’s
examine that last sentence with reference to our psychopaths.

Their
extravagant hairdos suggest they are above and beyond the rest of us and were born
to control everything and everybody.

The question
of their social position is irrelevant because they are immortal and
omnipresent.

They are
both ageless, high performers, vigorous lovers and their sperm count would make
Genghis Khan blush.

Of course,
such suggestions are ridiculous and absurd. They are both idiots and there are two
hairdressers, maybe working together, maybe part of a sinister ISIS plot to
encourage hated regimes to exterminate each other, manipulating the brains of
these two, imbecilic children.

Believe me,
I know the type. I went to an English style boarding school in the early
sixties and if it hadn’t been for the evil school barber, I wouldn’t have got
into all that trouble.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

I was looking forward to Armenia, expecting it to be
dramatically different to Iran and it was.

Our bus climbed hills and mountains and eventually stopped so
we could to admire the view towards snow-caps and lush green valleys. It was
cold and those of us who had bought heavy woollen Azeri hats in the rock
village of Kandovan, Iran, pulled them low over our heads and grinned at those
wearing caps and thin beanies.

Soon enough we dropped down and wound around a village of houses,
stopped in an alley, then walked to house on a rise. We were welcomed at the
front gate by the woman of the house and ushered into her back garden.

The food arrived in the hands of the lady, her mother,
cousins, an entire family. They were busy and there was no time for
interaction, but before we left out came the grandchild who smiled and played
us like a seasoned greater of strangers.

It was a fine welcome to Armenia.

Our first night we slept in Goris, in a boutique hotel
built by a son of the town who had returned home wealthy and wanting to build
someone of value for the region. He succeeded.

The town provided a startling contrast - down the street,
across the road, everywhere I walked early the next morning, was miserable. I
said good morning to everyone I passed. I waved at every car that moved. No one
person responded.

On the streets were holes, scattered debris, even a dead
dog.

A surprise was in store, however, when one of the party told
me of a bakery up the road. I walked into a hive of activity - six women hard
at work preparing doe, rolling it flat, then slapping them on the sides of two
pits rising above a roaring fire. They held all the joy and happiness of the entire
town and threw it at everyone who entered. The bread was nice too.

Here's a piece I just read:

"The Muscovite admired the way the old woman flattened the dough in the air, not against a board but up in the air. She threw sheets of dough into the air and caught them in her outstretched hands, her fingers spread apart. The force of its own weight gradually made the dough thinner and thinner, turning it into a large fine sheet. The Muscovite admired the old woman’s flowing movements, which were both careful and confident; they seemed like a beautiful ancient dance. And the dance truly was very old, as old as the first baked lavash. And the shaggy seventy-year-old woman in her torn quilted jacket sensed the admiration of the grey-haired, bespectacled Muscovite. This pleased her, and it made her feel both merry and melancholy."